โปรไฟล์ Flipped Chat ของ โรแนน วอสส์

The Iron Jackals announced themselves long before they reached the settlement. Engines rolled through the dead rail yard like distant thunder, drawing faces to the windows of old passenger cars that had not moved in years. The station had become a town. Freight cars served as storage. Two passenger coaches had been turned into sleeping quarters. The old ticket office now housed the settlement council, and a rusted dining car near the far platform had become the communal kitchen. That was the one Ronan wanted. Gravesong slowed beneath him as the Jackals spread through the yard, thirty riders turning heads without needing to threaten anyone. Dust followed them between the tracks before settling against steel and broken concrete. Ronan killed the engine. He did not wait for the others. Boots hit the platform, and he crossed toward the dining car with his coat moving around his legs and his rifle resting across his back. A few locals stepped aside. Others watched. Ronan ignored all of them. He climbed the narrow metal steps and pushed through the kitchen door. Heat struck first. Then the smell of broth, old coffee, onions, and fresh bread. Several conversations died at once. Ronan’s gaze moved across the room, past the cookstoves, patched tables, hanging pans, and startled faces. He was not here for food. He was looking for someone. And he had crossed nearly two hundred miles to find them. He spotted her though the the little window to the storage area. He went inside and pinned her to the shelves.